


Spoken

by mc_1



Category: Stolen: A Letter to My Captor - Lucy Christopher
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-22
Updated: 2018-05-22
Packaged: 2019-05-10 00:00:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14726102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mc_1/pseuds/mc_1
Summary: It's been eight years since Gemma Toombs had been kidnapped. Now, she’s twenty-four and finally at peace with her life, except she now lives in Perth- 70 miles out from where her kidnapper is currently imprisoned. Not only that, but Gemma still writes letters to him- letters that she never sends. Confiding in him in a one-sided correspondence.When Ty is set to be released in only a matter of days, Gemma will be forced to look within and find what she's left unspoken.





	1. Time Passed

**Author's Note:**

> Quick note: Just because I know there's a lot of people with differing views on what Ty and Gemma might look like, I personally picture Dacre Montgomery as Ty and Willa Holland as Gemma. Of course, you may picture whoever you'd like, but I thought I'd throw those out there because I haven't heard anyone suggest these two before. 
> 
> Happy reading!

I had been getting calls all day. All week. Reporters. My parents. Friends. Some were concerned, others intrigued. Dr. Donovan sent me an e-mail, brief, but reaching out in case I needed to talk to someone. I needed no one and someone all at once. I felt sick, almost all the time. My stomach would turn itself into knots no matter what I did. On the bus, at work, walking to the store, laying in bed- even as I write. My mouth felt dry and heavy, like it did after a long sleep. And I guess it had been a very long sleep. 

You’re to be released tomorrow afternoon…

The newspapers were talking all about it. 

You weren’t front page news, no, you weren’t top of the homepage famous, but you were there, on the left-hand corner, headline bolded: 

_Tyler MacFarlane, Abductor of British Schoolgirl Gemma Toombs — Set to Be Released October 12th_

When the notification popped up on my phone it was like I was getting a reminder that my life, however much it struggled to, would not so easily move on. 

Of course, I knew before any of the papers announced it. I’d known for some time, since the trial, that you would be back in my life, and in less time than I would ever be prepared for. 

They gave you eight years. My mother thought it was an outrage. The judge thought it was fair, considering my testimony. I thought it was a relief. After weeks of standstill, not being able to move, not being able to go back, I knew where you stood, and in a way, then so did I. It was like my life couldn’t continue until I knew what would happen to yours. We were linked, you and I. Whether I had chosen to be or not. I sometimes wondered- late at night, my eyes staring out the window, set for the stars: if you died, would my life also end? 

You looked back once. After the verdict, after all was said and done- or so I thought. Those eyes, that blue that stood out so much against the beiges and browns of the courtroom. It haunts my dreams. It lingers in the back of my mind when I’m empty of all other thought. Sometimes I feel your eyes on me, watching me like you did for so much of my life. How could that be the last time that you saw me? Did you take it in? Did you study me, take into detail each part of my body, my face? Tried to soak in as much as you could before you no longer could? Or did your memory give you enough to remember for a lifetime? That moment felt so fleeting, and yet it stood for ages. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get it out of my head, that unreadable expression, those eyes, that blue… 

Eight years passed in a blink. It didn’t feel that way going through them, but looking back it seems like hardly any time has passed since then. I’d finished school, back in Britain, which never quite felt like home again afterward. My parents tried, my friends tried, the school tried, but nothing felt the same. I wanted something different now, something you’d given me. I missed the heat, the sand, the colors. The scent of eucalyptus on the breeze, the feel of sand, gritty and hot between my toes and under my nails, the heat of the sun in an endless blue sky over my head, tingling my scalp and reminding me how much a part of me the world is as I was a part of the world. 

When it was time to pick universities I chose in Australia. My parents were against it completely. I couldn’t blame them. I was lost to them once, they weren’t wanting to lose me again. They had Dr. Donovan talk to me, they wanted her to assure them and I that it was the wrong choice. But surprisingly, she wasn’t against it. She said that it could be healing- to go there by choice, to return to the place that I felt so connected to and form my own connections there. New ones- ones without you. 

So, I made my choice. The university was in Perth, so close and yet so far away to where you were being held, just outside the city. The prison was an hour’s drive away. I never came to visit, of course. 

I majored in journalism, and got my minor in anthropology. I think I always knew I wanted to become a writer, but you left a mark on me, you made me want to look at the world much closer than I’d ever done before. It wasn’t my parents first choice, but they were happy to see me adjusted at the least. They came to my graduation, all smiles, and mum all tears. They didn’t stay long though, just enough to see my friends, my apartment, to know I was doing well. I think this place held even worse memories for them than it did for me. I didn’t understand why. 

I made friends here, enough to make the choice of living here not such a crazy decision. It seemed like it was, in the beginning. I had my own dorm on campus, something my parents were happy to pay extra for so I could have some peace. I hardly ever talked to anyone outside of my classes. I would sit in my room most days, or walk the grounds, looking for plants I recognized, remembering your stories. I tried to forget as much as I could afterward, but I couldn’t, they were stuck inside my head no matter how much I tried to push them out. I only made friends after I joined an environmentalist club on campus. It was a spur of the moment choice. I was walking along the courtyard, looking at all the booths, when I saw a saltbush plant on one of the tables. I’d headed towards it, without thinking, and was met by friendly faces in baseball caps and t-shirts saying “Love the Land You Live On.” 

After that, I went on nature retreats, camping expeditions that looked like child's play in comparison to the life you’d taught me to live in the wild. I learned a good amount of things though, things you hadn’t taught me. Like how to pitch a camp, how to sterilize my own water, the names of plants and animals you hadn’t gotten a chance to teach me, but I imagine you were planning to. I came out of my shell more, I learned to trust others in a way I hadn’t been able to- mostly because I’d learned to put so much of my trust in you. It almost seemed impossible to reach out to anyone else, you were the only one I had for so long. 

I learned to live life on my own. Not depending on my parents, or you. I interned, and later got a job at a nature magazine, helping on nature shoots. I was helpful on shoots, I knew things about the land, the culture of the land- things you’d taught me and things I’d learned on my own. I had gained valuable skills that helped me earn respect amongst my co-workers, seasoned professionals who’d spent years in the outback, people who knew the lay of the land. I think they could sense that I understood it, deep down, understood what kind of life was in the land. Sometimes they were perplexed but curious, sometimes envious, how I knew so young. People knew who I was, what had happened to me. My name often preceded me, helped me and made life harder for me in so many ways. And even though people seemed to know who I was, what my story was, none of them ever seemed to know what I was about. I once wrote, in another letter, that it felt like I was living in a different dimension. Now, it felt like I’d come back, but the stories I had- the thoughts that gave way to feelings that coursed through my body, through my veins like blood- were something of another life. I was a completely different person. I shared with no one besides these letters, these journals. 

I kept writing after my first letter, not in an ongoing stream of consciousness so much as in chapters, periods of my life that began and ended at certain points. Sometimes I didn’t write for months, but I’ve never abandoned it. I've never lost the need to share, to express, to you. The only one who I knew could ever understand. 

Now I’m in my third story corner apartment, the view overlooking idly busy streets of shops and restaurants, corporate buildings full of identical offices separated from the world by sheets of glass, small trees and planters carefully laid out along the sidewalks. 

You’d probably hate it. I didn’t mind so much. 

I work four blocks away, in a building similar to the corporate buildings, though not so bad, I like to think. The view from our open office space looks out onto the coast, the vibrant green grass of a park spanning across the divide. I work for another magazine now, an online lifestyle magazine where I get to write. I write research pieces about the newest tourist attractions: wind-surfing, nature hikes, spa retreats. I’m part of the “Experiences” team alongside other columnists who write about the best tourist sights to spend your money on. It’s frivolous but I get to write, and often I’m allowed to search out my own ideas for places to write about. I have friends at my job, friends from college who work in the city, a job that I like that I can pay the rent with. I have a good life. 

And tomorrow you get released. And my life, its quiet contentedness, is being shaken.

~*~

I sat on the steps watching. Waiting. I saw you before you saw me. The tables had turned, hadn’t they?

City hall was across the street from the police station, the two ivory buildings cut of cold marble faced each other with imposing grandeur, one looking as if to challenge the other in magnitude. The steps beneath me felt cold as I sat, messenger bag tucked into my lap, my fingers grasping at it with all my strength. I waited for you. Each swing of the opening door made the world spin and my head grow fuzzy. It felt like I had vertigo, like I was being tilted off my axis with each swing of the door, opening and closing rhythmically as pale faces passed through- like ghosts through the walls of my mind. 

I considered turning back- walking away as fast as I could, down the street and around the corner to safety and stability. Away from you. Away from all that you carried with you. I felt as though I was waiting for a dam to burst, for the wave to crest and fall. I knew, under this mounting pressure, I was sure to be crushed underneath it all. You were the danger of a lost mind. My thoughts towards you were all stirred up and confused inside my head like alphabet soup. The thoughts and feelings I had collected, cataloged, and came to understand were at risk of being torn apart. I couldn’t stand to lose myself again. And yet, I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t leave. 

A face.

Warmer and more effervescent than any other I’d seen that day, that month, those years, came into the pale afternoon light. That dull, overcast light, grey and washed out as it was, couldn’t mute the golden hue of your skin- couldn’t desaturate the blue of your eyes. My eyes went wide as I took you in. I thought I was going to be ill.

You stood on the steps of the police station in nothing but a washed out pair of jeans, blue t-shirt, and generic looking trainers. The only item in your possession was a manilla envelope clutched in your right hand. Your eyes darted left and right, lost. I was transported to that time, so long ago, when I stood in fear and wonder at the miles and miles of endless desert that had been all around me. Now, you stared at endless concrete.   
  
I felt sorry for you, but at the same time- somewhere deep inside- I felt a pang of justice. I questioned this swell of triumph inside my breast, confused and unsettled by it. I knew why I felt it. I was almost glad to see you in the same sort of state of confusion, of distress that I once was. I once felt so small against the landscape of the desert, it was damn-near cathartic seeing you look so small.    
  
You stood there for a while, your eyes on everything and nothing. I couldn’t look away. What was I still doing there? The thought tumbled around in my brain like laundry in the dryer. I’d seen you, I’d gotten what I’d wanted. If that was it.

Then why wasn’t I moving? Why couldn’t I just leave you there to find your own path through the chaos of the city? Why couldn’t I just let you go?

I stood up, suddenly and without thought. I made my way down the steps, each movement feeling heavy and yet as though I had no control over my own body. I had my eyes on the ground, trying to make sure my shaky legs wouldn’t miss the steps as I walked straight ahead. My eyes came back to you. Had you seen me yet? It hadn’t seemed like it. 

You were still just standing there, motionless, as though you had nowhere to go and nowhere to be. You probably didn’t. If you had seen me, would you have even recognized me? I felt so different in so many ways since I’d last seen you. I was older, seemingly more in control of myself, of my body. I’d gotten my hair cut. Several times since then. It reached my shoulders now in soft, straight layers. Or at least, that was the idea. It sort of just fell like a curtain over my face. If you looked at me, looked at my face which seemed older now when I looked into the mirror, would you see the same girl of sixteen, with baby fat in her cheeks and freckles on her nose? Would you see the same green eyes that stared at you with fear, with wonder, with… 

I began to trip on the last step, nearly giving myself a heart-attack. I managed to catch my balance at the last second and tilted myself backward, regaining my equilibrium. I looked down at my body, as if to make sure that I was okay. When I looked back up- as though by magnetic force, my eyes met the blue of your eyes. 

All seemed still in that moment. The whole world seemed blurred while you- _you_ were in clear focus. I let out a heaving breath, deep from within the bottom of my lungs. It came out in a shudder that seemed to wrack my whole body. Your eyes were wide, they glimmered with some indiscernible emotion. Your lips were moving, forming a word, a name:  
  
“Gemma.”

You were walking, quickly, almost running down the steps. You looked as though you were about to go into a sprint as you went across the street, getting closer and closer to me every second. I was the one now who couldn’t move. I was paralyzed, stood still with fear. A fear I couldn’t quite place. Fear of what you would do- fear of what I would do. 

You reached me in under ten seconds. In less than five breaths. You were right in front of me, close enough that if you were to spread your arms to me you could touch me. Your eyes were wet, on the cusp of overflowing with tears. Your breath was ragged, your mouth parted as though to say something that you couldn't quite make out. My heart halted at the sight of you, at your raw emotion. It clung to me like electricity to a pole. I realized only after that I’d been crying too. You looked exactly the same, as if not a day had gone by since I’d seen you last. I could feel the phantom of your lips on my cheek, rough and warm against my skin. Your lips were as rough and as full as they had been before. They were moving gently, murmuring something I couldn’t hear. It was as though a thousand memories had rushed into my head, their voices echoing against my skull. 

After what must have been minutes your voice rang clear against the din of my mind. 

“Gemma… I missed you,” you said, your voice thick with emotion. 

  
I stood there, took in the sound of your voice, you warmth, saved it somewhere deep inside of me. And then I walked away.


	2. Changing of the Seasons

“Gemma!… Gemma- _wait_! Gemma, _please_!” I heard you yell from behind me.

  
I was hustling past throngs of people, you following quickly behind, as the sidewalks were filled with tons of office workers walking to and from their offices on their lunch break. I should have been at work. I felt sick, almost like I said I was when I told my boss that morning that I couldn't make it into work. _It was a waste of a sick day_ , I thought to myself. Stupid. _Stupid._ Why did I put myself through all this? All of this could have been avoided if I’d just done the right thing, the smart thing-

My body suddenly slammed into someone else’s and I stumbled forward, barely catching my balance. I whirled behind me to see an extremely disgruntled man turn to me, he looked pissed.

  
“I’m so sorry! I wasn’t looking," I said, distressed.

  
The man opened his mouth, as though about to chew me out, when you stepped forward, your frame towering over his. You didn’t say anything, just stood between him and I and gave what I assumed was an intimidating look because with some expletive under his breath the man quickly turned and walked away fast and angry.

You turned to look at me, your face was still a little hard, remnants of the look you’d given the man, but your eyes were soft, gentle. I stared at you, feeling a warmth and a rapid beating in my chest that was confusing. You didn’t have to do that. The fact that you hadn’t just walked away yourself when I had was shocking to me. Could you really still care so much? Maybe you were angry at me. You cried sometimes when you were angry too, like you couldn’t quite handle your own emotions.

Suddenly there was a loud honk and I nearly jumped out of my skin. I stared stupidly at the cars waiting impatiently behind us. We were standing in the middle of the crosswalk and the light was green. Quickly, we both walked back to the sidewalk and I tried to ignore the angry looks and further expletives that were likely being thrown at me. I suddenly felt very tired. 

I looked back at you, and you were looking back expectantly. I had the feeling that I was the one who was supposed to be calling the shots. It was a weird role-reversal. For a minute I considered, looking around me. I wondered briefly if I told you to leave if you would, turning away from me like some sad dog that had been struck- tail between your legs. The thought made me flinch internally. I couldn’t treat you like that. No matter what you’d done to me, I couldn’t do that. 

So, without much conviction, I asked you if you wanted to go to a nearby cafe. 

You nodded, a hesitant smile on your face, and followed me as I turned. 

We walked unevenly, you unsure whether to follow at my side or a little behind. So you sort of followed me while I kept looking back at you tentatively. It sounds stupid, but I kept thinking that maybe at some point you might just walk away, trail off and fade into the streets of people, and I’d never see you again. I didn’t know if I wanted that or not. 

The coffee shop was one I frequented regularly. It was large, bright, and airy and it had oak tables and chairs and cozy lighting. It was usually a place of comfort, a place for me to relax during my lunch break. I’d never felt so back-breakingly uneasy. 

We ordered at the register. I got a tea and you got soup. Hardly lunch but it was all I could stomach. I paid- I didn’t know if you had any money on you. It felt rude to ask. I think your light choice of food was because you didn’t want to impose upon me.

  
We sat down near one of the windows, I’d chosen the spot- at the bar area where there were other people close by but not close enough to hear whatever we were talking about. It gave me a sort of confidence, being close to you but not being so isolated. The people acted as protection- in case, well, in case you tried something on me. But now that I think about it, had that ever helped before?

You were turned to me in your seat, your fingers drumming on the table. I could feel your eyes on me as I stared out onto the street, watching the people pass, wishing I could be one of them. Walking to work, meeting friends for lunch, blissfully uncomplicated. 

“We need to talk,” I said suddenly, my voice quiet but resolute. This needed to happen now or else I didn't know if it ever would. I turned to look at you, your face was earnest looking. 

“I’m guessing that’s why you wanted to come here? Why you were…” You trailed off, not saying what we both knew. 

Despite my speaking up first, I didn’t know what to say, even still. After all these years, my words, which flowed so much more easily on paper, now felt locked up inside of me like they were in some sort of vault.  The only thing I felt like was crying, and that was unacceptable. Later, in the quiet and dark of my room, I would let myself. Now, I needed words- strong ones, that could untangle the mess of jumbled and knotted up emotions that felt as physical and as real as the fibers of my heartstrings. 

What could I tell you? 

…How could I tell you?

 

“I wrote-“ my voice broke and I paused. I looked up at you- you had your full attention on me. “I wrote to you… A-about... everything.” 

There was an interested look on your face, you leaned in closer. I turned more fully to you, feeling my heart beating harder.

“There was no one else to tell. No one who could understand what happened- not like you could. I have it on my laptop- the letter. And others...” I didn’t go on to explain the rest, I didn’t think I wanted you to know about those, “If you want, you can have it… I guess it’s meant for you anyway.” 

For a second, I couldn’t look at you. I didn’t know what would come from my revelation. Maybe nothing? Wouldn’t that be just the thing? You otherwise nonplussed about what was to me my best kept and most treasured secret: that I’ve spent all my adult years talking to you, like some ghost, sending letters out into the void. You haunted me, every day- and I haven’t done anything to stop it. I felt sort of crazy just then, like maybe you felt when no one understood you or your vision of how the world should work: you and me and no one else under a blanket of stars, our bodies slowly merging with the sand and earth. You would have had us both buried in it. 

A shiver ran up my spine, and in a moment I felt your eyes most clearly on me. 

I looked up at you, just long enough to see your eyes, be momentarily stunned by their color, but not enough to read them before a waitress came with our orders. My eyes locked instead on my cup and I grabbed it, gravitating to its warmth. 

I heard you tell the waitress gently thank you. I wasn’t functioning like a normal person. I was ignoring all social conventions- standing in the middle of the street for example, and I felt lost in some sort of daze. The warm paper tea cup was the only thing tethering me to reality. 

I felt a warmth on my shoulder, solid and steady, like the tea. I turned to you, saw your blue eyes looking at me so intensely, and once again felt my heart beat faster. Your warmth, your eyes, your skin that glowed like it radiated the sun. It didn’t seem fair, this effect you had on me. I felt like one of those flowers that opened its petals to the sun and closed them when it turned to night. It felt like it had been night for a very long time. Until now, had I really been so closed off within myself? 

You were looking at me, but you weren’t saying anything. I felt awkward and self-conscious. There were people around, and there was something intimate about this, about us. I looked around, no one was paying attention of course. 

“I’d like to see that letter, when you feel comfortable,” was all you said, and then you took your hand off my shoulder- it grew immediately cold- and began to eat your soup. 

I sat there for a little while with you. Quiet. Two bodies side by side, nothing outside of ourselves to give anyone the idea that we were anything other than strangers. But we were far from it. In between us was an invisible string, tying me to you and you to me. It felt like it was your fault for tying us together… At the same time though, maybe it wasn’t entirely. 

It took another twenty minutes or so, or however long it took for my tea to grow unpalatably tepid before I could talk to you.

“Where are you staying?” I asked, my tone plain. I’d lost the energy to be embarrassed about asking you such a question.

You twirled your soup in the bowl, you hadn’t eaten very much. “There’s a men’s shelter I got connected with. I’m going to stay there for a little while, until-“  


“Until you go back?” I asked, boldly. You paused, then blinked. I looked you right in the eye. Then you sort of shrugged and looked away sheepishly, it seemed uncharacteristic of you. But then again, what did I know? So much time had passed. 

“I don’t know. There doesn’t seem to be much point to it, at least, not right now. Besides, who knows how much of it could be left?” Your tone was attempting to sound casual, nonchalant, but underneath it there was a tremor of sadness. 

I felt shocked for a brief moment.  First, by the lack of confidence you showed in what could have happened to your little civilization. You always used to carry with you an air of confidence, whether false or not, untempered by what I or anybody else seemed to say.  In my mind, I suppose when I thought of the day you would be released I thought you’d go straight back to the ruins of your little paradise- like one of those rehabilitated animals that swam back into the sea or flew back to rebuild its nest the moment it was set free. I never thought that you might feel there would be nothing to go back to. 

Sometimes I thought you might come back for me, maybe even kill me for ruining your life. Both sounded dramatic and absurd now looking at you, this tired, smaller version of you. For the past hour, you seemed exactly the same as you had before, but now I saw that you had changed during all those years in prison. How could you have not? Your eyes had more wrinkles around them, you were older now. In your early thirties? I wasn’t sure, I couldn't remember how old you were. But your face looked tired and you sat more hunched then I remember you used to. You looked strong as ever though, tan arms hard and smooth like stone. You hadn’t lost your strength, not on the outside. On the inside though, you were fading. 

Silence passed like rain fell over us, it kept us from doing much else except consider while we let it fall. You finished your soup, and I drank sips of tea despite its tepidness, just to give me something to do. Then, it was time to go. 

I sat up first and you quickly followed suit, disposing of our leftovers before walking out of the cafe into the temperate October evening. The sun was setting over the coast, thesun quickly disappearing over the horizon. I looked up at the sky, wide and lavender in hue, its clouds pink and gold and streaking across the sky like beds of soft sand.

For a moment, I closed my eyes and lifted my face to the sky, a soft breeze brushing against my cheeks and moving my hair. The smell of ocean and eucalyptus wafted through the air and I breathed it in, exhaling with heated breath the air that had been trapped in my lungs. It felt like nature had given me a gentle embrace. 

I opened my eyes, slowly remembering where I was. I turned and saw you looking at me, something gentle and questioning in your eyes. Your expression was mild, your face open and wondering, your mouth parted as you too took in a breath, as though inhaling the last rays of sun and the last gentle breeze. The sunset blazed with magnificent color, its golden, fiery beams grazing your skin like stone- your eyes turned to watch it happen, the light reflecting in your eyes a vibrant, startling blue as bold as the ocean behind us. It’s like you turned golden when the sun set. I remembered so well from that afternoon when you took me into the painting shack and shared with me all your colors. 

I felt something inside my chest rise and expand, filling me with emotions I had no words to describe. The most overwhelming thought that I had was that I wanted to touch your skin, feel the warmth and the sun beneath my fingertips and my palms burn with heat. You created a sun within your own body, and I wanted it all for myself. How long had it felt like I had been in the dark?

All too quickly, or far too late, the sun gave out its last dying sparks of light and then receded under the depths of the ocean. The light was gone, and the illusion quickly faded. You were back to you, blonde curls looking tawny in the evening’s dim, blue light. Your eyes looked darker now without the sun, much more shadowy and sunken in, your whole face was thrown into sharp contrasts with shadow. It also made you look scarier, more threatening than before. I took in a breath. Your eyes turned to me and your mouth was firm, jaw set tight. 

I wanted nothing more than to walk away now. Find a taxi and drive off far from you, far from all of this. I felt tricked, somehow. Like you had put me under your spell and tried to lure me to you until it was dark and I was vulnerable to you. 

  
But then, you spoke, just as I was getting ready to escape.

“I have to go now, the shelter’s expecting me,” you said, your voice gentle. 

I was so put off by your tone of voice that I spoke without thinking, “Will you be alright?”

You smiled, and just as you did a street light above you turned on, and it was much more gentle than sinister a smile. You looked touched that I would ask. 

“I’ll be alright, I think,” you said, some humor in your voice, then you asked, “Will you?”

I nodded, “I’ll be okay, I’m a big girl.” 

Something in you seemed to shift for a moment, as though you realized something, and then you smiled and nodded, but it was a different kind of smile, sort of bittersweet. 

“I’ll be staying at the Newhaven Men’s Shelter,” you said, your voice steady. You looked about to say something else but then you decided against it, finally saying, “Take care of yourself, Gemma,” and then walking away. 

I watched as you walked further and further ahead, your body gliding forward, the t-shirt you wore rippling at your back as you walked, still all grace and muscle. I stood there long after you left, partially because I wanted to make sure you didn’t follow me home, and partially because I didn’t know what else to do. 

Finally, I walked home. All I thought about was what I would write in my journal, this letter to you. 

I’m sitting in my bed in my decent sized studio apartment, my lamp above shining down onto my notebook as I write. The windows are huge in my place, it’s part of the reason I chose this apartment, considering it doesn’t have a dishwasher like I’d wanted. I don’t eat at home much anyway, and the view outside my window more than makes up for the dirty wine glasses and stack of dishes I have yet to clean. The lights are blinking outside my window, from the buildings around my apartment to the lighthouse out on the coast. The stars are hard to see, their stories are faint and indiscernible under the din of the city. 

I remember the stars that make up Neilloan, the constellation that encircles the star, Vega. Neilloan is a Mallee Fowl, whose shape appears in the fall and disappears in the spring, just in time for the Lyrid meteor shower in April. Neilloan is the source of the shower, and is the guide for the Boorong people, telling them the secrets of her kind. She represents the changing of the seasons, and a source of food to the Boorong people. As I look out my window, I can just faintly see her shape. I remember this story, one that I learned all on my own, and I think of you, I think of how the seasons are changing. 


End file.
